


not your momma's cooking

by CopperCaravan



Series: Fallout Prompt Fills [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Cal Summers, F/M, M/M, Other, non-binary sole survivor - Freeform, one very unlucky radchicken, pure silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:29:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7339045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperCaravan/pseuds/CopperCaravan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tumblr prompt fill: Mac & Cal + "You want me to do what?"<br/>Cal has sorely missed good food and enlists MacCready in food prep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not your momma's cooking

**Author's Note:**

> This is so ridiculous. There is no point to this. But it was so fun and there is (for once) no angst.

“Oh holy shit. Mac. _Mac._ ” When the whispers and gentle nudges don’t quite do it, Cal transitions to impatient shoving and nearly rolls MacCready out of his sleeping bag. “Mac, wake the fuck up.”

The sun is rising over the tree line and while the fog of Far Harbour is inconvenient, to say the least, even Cal has to admit it’s a beautiful sight—the way the light seems to move through the hazy air, the way it bends and peeks around trees and cliff face. If Cal were the sort to stop and stare at sunrises, this wouldn’t be one to miss. But right now, there are much more important things to stare at.

“Robert MacCready if you don’t get your ass out of—”

“ _What?_ ” Mac yanks the flap of his sleeping bag over his face and groans. “Jesus, what?”

“Look,” Cal urges, nudging him with one hand and pointing with the other.

MacCready—finally—sits up and follows Cal’s line of sight, squinting in the early morning sun and rubbing one eye with the palm of his hand. It takes him a moment to focus, to figure out just what the hell Cal’s pointing at and when he does, he’s not impressed.

“So?”

“ _So?_ ” Cal looks almost offended and Mac feels kinda stupid for not getting what the heck the big deal is. Cal puts both hands on Mac’s shoulders and gives him a little shake, looks him square in the eye like this is the most important moment of their lives. “Mac. Go get me that chicken.”

MacCready blinks. “You want me to do what?”

“Go. Get. The. Chicken.”

After a couple of seconds—and more blinking—Mac drops right back onto his sleeping bag, muttering. “Just shoot the damn thing.”

 “Mac. Look at that tiny little chicken.”

MacCready doesn’t look at the chicken. Rather, he just looks at Cal, hoping his expression will get across every single word he’s trying not to say out loud. It doesn’t seem to be working.

“And look at my pipe wrench over there,” Cal continues. “Now tell me how the hell I’m supposed to shoot that chicken.”

Mac elects to ignore that and turns over in his sleeping bag, facing _away_ from Cal and any other ‘logical’ arguments that could end in him chasing foul.

But he knows he’s in trouble when he feels the little shift of Cal leaning over him and then lips along his neck and ear. “ _Please_ go get me the chicken.” _Goddammit._

“Oh, for—Cal, what in the hell are you gonna do with a chicken?” He tries to sound annoyed—because he _is_ —but they both know he’s already lost.

“I’m gonna fry it.”

\---

Several ( _several_ ) hours later, Mac sits on a log, holding a ‘fried’ leg of chicken and, beside him, Cal is still occasionally bursting into laughter and saying “That was the best chicken chase I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“And I’m sure you’ve seen so many,” he retorts. But apparently, Cal’s seen plenty of chicken chases, and chased just as many chickens themself.

It’s the most ridiculous thing MacCready’s ever heard. “That’s what you did before the war? Chase birds?”

“And eat ‘em. And smoke weed. And fix cars,” Cal says, picking up the other drumstick and smelling it. “Usually not in that order though.”

This is one of the weirdest things Mac’s ever seen cooked; it’s not that the meat’s all that weird, just Cal’s way of cooking it—vegetable oil and crushed up old cereal and one of their few, precious beers, and then _bam,_ hands it over like it’s the damn treasure of Jamaica Plain or something. Smells pretty damn good though, so he takes a bite.

It’s still hot as hell and it burns his mouth but _damn._ It’s good. It’s really, really good. Truth be told, he’s always grateful when he’s not stuck eating bugs or rats or mirelurks (and god knows he’s had enough mirelurk out here to last him the rest of his life), but this is new-good.

He’s about to bite the bullet and tell Cal how much it doesn’t suck when he hears a groan of displeasure. “Ugh, this is fucking awful,” Cal says.

“What are you talking about? This is great.”

Cal looks at him like he’s the saddest thing in the world. “I have done so wrong by you. I can’t believe I fed you this. My momma would beat my ass for calling this shit ‘cooking.’”

Mac just shrugs and takes the other leg off Cal’s plate. “Well, I like it, so if you’re not gonna eat it...”

Cal just waves it off, completely disinterested in eating what Mac put so much effort into catching. More for him though, so maybe he’s not _too_ bothered by it. “You only like it ‘cause you don’t know better,” Cal says, sounding about as depressed as Mac’s ever heard. “This is the worst fried chicken I have ever had. Damn radiation. Don’t even have any fucking peppers.”

Mac doesn’t really know what to say to that. Obviously Cal’s doing that _thing_ —that sorta homesick-y, missing-200-years-ago thing. Nothing Mac can do about it except let the pouting pass, not that Cal’s really one to pout for long anyway. So Mac just eats his chicken and tries, every couple of bites, to convince Cal that he really is enjoying it.

“Ok,” Mac says, finishing up. “How about when we head back to the ‘Wealth, we’ll catch a couple more and take ‘em on the boat. Maybe you just need more to work with than a campfire in a can. You got peppers growing back home.”

Cal doesn’t smile, but it’s clear the pouting’s passed. “Actually, I kinda had another idea just now.”

_Oh no. Oh no, no, no._ He just sighs and waits.

“You know those Fog Crawlers around the coast?”

“Oh, fu— _really_? Seriously? Why are you doing this to me?”

Cal just sidles up next to him and presses those damned lips into his collar. “I’m doing it _for_ you, Mac. I bet you ain’t ever had shrimp and grits.”


End file.
